


Green

by Zimithrus1



Category: Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Angst, Psychological Torture, but nothing serious, dark themes, scientific experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 12:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18052826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimithrus1/pseuds/Zimithrus1
Summary: The liquid –the Mako, as his best friend dubbed it, took away his right to move, to feel, to communicate. He was a doll becoming fitted with more marionette strings every day; the fluid they prisoned him in becoming said strings.





	Green

**Author's Note:**

> Lately I haven't had much time/energy to work on my multi-chapter fics, but every now and again the urge to write a one-shot comes up, so I did.
> 
> A post Nibelheim fic centered around Cloud during Hojo's experiments. Hope you enjoy!

The color of sunshine hair diluted by sickly green, each strand formless in hued suspension. Sky blue eyes hazed by the mint glaze; serpentine stare. The fluid, it moves –twisting and cascading, twirling like a cobra of venomous life. The liquid bubbles around his ears, a near sizzling ringing in them. It burns a bit too. Hears funny past the fluid; the muted radio static in his hearing tuning between two forgotten stations.

Concept of time construed awry. How long had he been suspended in this burning green? Beyond the haze he always saw and felt, he knew nothing of seasons passage and time’s march. Had it been merely minutes here, or countless days that bled into months and years?

The only way he knew time had continued to persist was by every new scar that would appear on his body. Each incision, every jagged line, even down to the last scrape and cut that scabbed. Those numbers soared astronomically high and he was mortified at the thought of mutating into a living rag-doll.

But…

But…..

There was only one thing –one anomaly, per say, that kept him from ever truly perishing in a prison of liquid green.

His best friend –his only friend.

He would see him every now again, appearing fervently in his fleeting moments of coherency. In some hazes, his only friend would shield his glass prison, large form outstretched to cast a powerful shadow over him. Defiance would not be tolerated. That protective form would soon always find itself back in its own glass chamber to become only sedated –never addicted like himself.

But…

That form’s big shadow would always find a way to caress him through the glass somehow: always. No matter how many times defiance was corrected, the punishments never deterred that formidable will.

In other times…

When the restraints were cold, his flesh bare, and the incisions burning thick… his only friend would throw his voice vehemently. Verbally clawing for dominance no matter the repercussions to himself. Those unbridled outbursts would distract the needles and tools in his skin and the ones who wielded them would turn and seek to correct the defiance again.

Then the leader of the other people in white and all of the sharp, chilled tools, would lose interest: send him back to his green, liquid cage and amp the dosage, while his only friend would be subdued and silenced, unconscious until the next exam.

Even still…

When the leader and all of the people would leave, the room dark and silently still, he and his only friend would finally have enough short time to communicate. But the communication was nothing more than a one-way street –he would still be pickling in his liquid green prison with nary any coherency. But his best friend would be locked up close by in a drier chamber, but much more cramped and uncomfortable.

And his friend would do all the talking.

He would always compliment him on how well he would endure exams, always remark about his fighting spirit –always saying how anyone weaker would have already buried themselves in the dirt by now.

Sometimes…

When the people in white would praise the few times his best friend did not outburst, they would allow him to walk around the area they were contained –a small room within the basement lab. All of the other doors were sealed and any tool to be used as means of escape were removed as well; they were confined only to that room.

But in those quiet times, _he had dubbed them his perception of ‘night’,_ his only friend would always stand or sit in front of his glass prison. He would talk through the glass and the fluid, no more than two feet away from him. He would grin sometimes, but mostly scowl and hold grievance in every muscle in his face. His friend would even put his hand on his glass cage, move his mouth to the words of _‘I will get us out of here’_ , and set his eyes ablaze in cerulean fire.

And sometimes his strong friend with a formidable will and sweet shadow would cry. He would quietly anguish in his own cage, or he’d rage and seep poisonous vengeance painted as justice from every pore. His wet sadness and dry anger would always stem for _him_. He dismissed what was done to himself, and always agonized over the acts performed to _him_.

His best friend just wanted to protect him.

If he could cry about that, he would have.

But the green fluid took that ability away. The liquid –the Mako, as his best friend dubbed it, took away his right to move, to feel, to communicate. He was a doll becoming fitted with more marionette strings every day; the fluid they prisoned him in becoming said strings.

He wondered if him and his best friend would ever find a way out… The leader was keen on keeping them trapped eternally.

The leader foiled every escape, every hastily formulated plot, every action would result in an opposite reaction and backfire dreadfully. He was starting to think that the leader had gotten his way at present: it had already felt like an eternity here.

But the lights in the room flicker to life and he sees the people in white returning again. They bring more needles and tools for the day’s work. His perception of ‘night’ was now over. The reprieve that gave him time to think was crushed flat once more.

Especially when the leader walked up to him and approached his tank.

His grin was sickening; oiled face that resembled slug skin gloating at him through his green fluid and glass haze. Bifocals blocked out where his eyes would have been, the glare brighter than the midday sun. Black hair strung and weak held to the back of his head with a tightly twisted hair-tie.

The leader adjusts his glasses and now he can see those devilish eyes –they make his stomach drop hard enough to feel as though it rips through his skin and scatters heavy rocks over the floor when it bursts like a balloon against the ground.

“Project C… the one who took down my greatest creation… I hope you finally decide to show me some precious results this morning.”

No… No, that wasn’t right. He was not known by Project C. His only friend never called him that. The soundless form of the word ‘Cloud’ was what his best friend addressed him by –always. He would never call him the strange titles the leader would bequeath to him.

“Professor Hojo,” A person in white falls to the leader’s side, “Is it time to initiate phase three?”

The leader –Hojo, sharply grins, “…undoubtedly.”

He wants to vomit as the dread upsurges.

“…And what about Project Z,” The person in white asks, “Do we still follow your old procedure for disposing it?”

A bang on the glass to his right. His friend, Project Z – _though he was sure that wasn’t his name for some reason,_ he was active and usurping his disobedience again.

“No… I just might have new devises for the ineffective specimen.”

And so it continues once more…

...

He wants his mother now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'll try to post my other things soon! Leave a kudo or comment if you like!


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